


Interludes

by Slumber



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/pseuds/Slumber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year in interludes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interludes

**Author's Note:**

> Holiday Exchange fic for [](http://thusspakekate.livejournal.com/profile)[**thusspakekate**](http://thusspakekate.livejournal.com/). I am _terribly_ sorry about how late this is. I had a little difficulty trying to figure out what I wanted this to be, since Draco/Pansy is one of my favorite ships and I couldn't decide on what plot to use, but I do hope you enjoy this! It, um. Got a little serious in the middle, and I'm terrible when it comes to fluff, but I hope this is still close to what you had in mind! I enjoyed writing this a great deal. Happy Holidays!

Draco couldn't remember a time that the Zabini villa has ever looked as magical. Precariously jutting over the edge of a white cliff, held steady no doubt by some very powerful and ancient magic the likes of which even money could not buy, its ballroom spilled onto a large balcony that overlooked the ocean and, on a perfectly timed gala like this, boasted of the most breathtaking view of the sunset this side of the Mediterranean.

"We try to use magic, like Hogwarts ceiling," Isabella Zabini told gushing guests, her accent adding a soft lilt to her tone, "but Damien say, 'Darling, how can magic compete with this?'"

Damien, of course, was the first husband, and in some circles he was rumored to have been the only one who had truly held Isabella Zabini's heart. The current spouse--Eight or Nine, Draco had since lost count--remained quiet beside her, though Draco did not miss the way his fingers clenched his glass just a little bit tighter.

He threw back his head and downed the rest of his own drink in one large gulp. This wasn't the first of the Frost Balls he'd attended but it was definitely the first he'd wanted to ditch. At the very edge of fall, on the eve of what would be the first snowfall of winter, the Zabinis always threw one large gala at any of their seven estates; it was society's most highly anticipated event of the year, and to have the Malfoys invited this year was a surprise to him as it had been to his parents. It was only upon arrival that he discovered why--they were practically centerpieces, like caged animals on display to gawkers. He couldn't shake the feeling that nosy eyes followed his every movement, that the low murmurs were about his family.

"Careful," Theodore Nott said, a stiff smile in place as he approached. "Skeeter looks like she's counting how many glasses you've consumed."

"That cow," Draco said with a scowl. "How did she get invited?"

"Why wouldn't she be? Isabella thrives on being in the spotlight." Theodore glanced at Draco. "I haven't seen you in a while."

"That was the intention," Draco said. Theodore Nott, true to his form, emerged on the other side of war unscathed after he worked out a deal to give up his father's collection of dark artefacts after his death. Draco hadn't been as lucky, given his involvement in Dumbledore's death and the entire year after that, and he didn't need Theodore's pity now any more than he needed it then. Draco shifted slightly, turning away as he headed deeper inside the ballroom. "If you'll excuse me, it seems the sun is about to set."

"The balcony is the other way."

And is exactly where everyone else will be. "I know."

***

Only the ballroom was usually open to guests, but Draco had been in the villa before, during a holiday with classmates the summer before his fifth. He slipped past the token wards, climbing the stairs that led up to the rooftop--as he remembered, it offered the same view as the balcony, but with thrice the privacy. He doubted, as he unlocked the door that led to the roof, that he'd be disturbed by anyone's gawking gaze or judging look all the way up there.

But he hadn't been the only one with the idea, it turned out.

"Pansy?"

She turned around to face him, the skirt of her violet dress swishing around her as she did. "Draco!"

He hadn't even realized she'd been at the ball. Last he heard her family had shipped her off east, something about recouping their lost investments during the war and finding a suitable match for her there. She looked as he remembered first seeing her at the Yule Ball--bright lips, large eyes, a sharp black bob softened by the delicate flow of her gown. This time, though, there was no reverence in her gaze, no underlying hint of shyness.

"I didn't know you'd be here," he said, at a loss for anything clever to say.

"Alexander took up a post with the embassy," she replied, taking a long drag of the cigarette she held between her slender fingers. That would explain her need for privacy, then; Isabella was notorious in her distaste for the damn things. She smiled at him, flicked the ashes away, and his eyes were drawn to the light as it caught the diamond on her finger. "Three months next week."

"I'm sorry?"

She wriggled her fingers. "You were looking. Everyone wanted to know. I think Daphne's about to murder me for this stone--Terrence Higgs could only afford half its size."

Draco snorted. "She couldn't have gotten anyone better than Higgs."

She laughed. "Exactly." And then, under her breath, "The cow." She glanced at him; they shared a quick look, one they'd shared multiple times in the past, and in the next moment they were collapsed in laughter.

"Merlin," Draco sighed when their sniggering had died down. "I was nearly ready to throw myself over the roof. Am I glad I found you here."

"Well, if it'll be at anyone's might as well be here," she said with a smirk. "I hear Isabella's got a fairly extensive collection of scouring charms to clean up whatever mess you leave behind."

"You still owe me five galleons on Seven," Draco said.

She snorted. "You never said anything about Muggle vehicles."

"A flying accident is as close as it gets."

"It's _always_ an accident."

"Five was a heart attack," he reminded her. "If I recall, I called that as well."

"You did no such thing," Pansy laughed. "Stop trying to weasel my precious galleons from me."

"They wouldn't be precious if--"

"Pansy?"

They both turned to look. A large and burly man, heavily bearded and just as girthed, wore a stern expression on his face as he poked his head in from inside.

"Alexander," she said, and he thought she recognized the smile she wore, all teeth and no mirth. She perfected it in their last few years at Hogwarts. "I was just catching up with an old friend from school."

"I see," was his reply. He fixed a hard gaze at Draco, who offered him his own bland smile. "You should come down with me now."

Pansy hated being told what to do, but the snippy remark Draco expected to hear never came. Instead, she said "of course" through gritted teeth, barely even looking at Draco as she took her husband's proffered arm.

By the time they had gone, the sun had as well. Its last rays pinked the sky a tinge. Draco sat down on the roof, picking up the box of cigarettes Pansy had left behind in her haste. He lit the end of it with a match and inhaled the prickly warmth as snow began to fall.

***

The next time he saw her was at the St. Mungo's tea room, five stories up and from behind the glass case where he measured ladles of soup into bright blue and yellow bowls. She arrived long after the lunch hour rush had ended, a swirl of prim and muted rose robes, her hair charmed long enough to pull into a bun. Witlh the tea room nearly empty, he found he had nowhere to hide so instead he froze in place, where he hoped she wouldn't catch sight of his soiled apron and the humiliation on his face.

Of course fortune had long since shunned him, but when she did happen to glance his way she only looked pleasantly surprised, nothing else. "Community service, I take it?"

"The thirteenth hour of a hundred."

"Could have been worse," she murmured.

"Father's scrubbing Azkaban cells. What are you doing here?"

She waved a languid, bejeweled hand in the air. "Charity fundraiser appearance something or other, first floor," she said. "I just came up here for a quick smoke. Somebody watching you?"

He nodded at the Magical Law Enforcement officer wolfing down his dessert a few tables away. "Here for ten minutes more."

"We can take him," she said. "A quick Confundus, maybe--"

"If you talk that loudly we'll be caught before we can even do it. I doubt the Wizengamot would look too kindly on _that_ if it happens to blemish my perfect record."

She smirked, rolling her eyes and patting him lightly on the arm before she veritably _sashayed_ toward the officer, her voice light and airy, her gaze adoring. It didn't take long before he succumbed to charms of a non-magical nature, nodding briefly at Draco. She turned around and gave him the thumbs up before gesturing for him to follow her outside.

It was the first full week of spring--the windows at last were open to the cool air outside and snow melted in puddles that spotted the concrete deck. Still, the fabric of his robes wasn't nearly thick enough and he allowed himself a slight shiver.

"Where's your wand?" she asked, lighting him a stick and conjuring a thicker cloak to wrap around his shoulders. "I understand you're catering to the frail and ill but there's no need to look the part either."

"Left it inside," he lied. They'd taken his wand away until his service hours were fulfilled, a decision that nagged at his pride to no end. "This really isn't healthy for you, you know."

"On the contrary, they say charity has very positive effects on the life span of the average witch."

"I meant the cigarettes. When did you even start?"

She shrugged, taking a deep breath and puffing out slowly, letting the smoke rings billow from her lips. "I should be allowed one bad habit, shouldn't I?"

Draco shook his head. "What does Alexander have to say about that?"

She didn't answer right away, and when Draco glanced her way he found her eyes had darkened a shade, that her fingers gripped her cigarette stick harder than they should.

Going through trial had given Draco a measure of newfound guilt. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have--"

"What he doesn't know won't hurt anyone," she interrupted, speaking over his apology. She cast him a sideways grin and he swallowed the rest of his sentence. "Guess who I ran into the other day, by the way."

"Anyone important?"

"Number Nine," she said. "I don't think we've set a pool for him yet, have we?"

"I didn't realize we were back in the habit of doing so."

"We never stopped. Nott has him down for two years more, Daphne for five months. Your bid?"

Draco wrinkled his nose. He didn't have the benefit of knowing Nine as well as he did the others, besides a short conversation at the Frost Ball. "What was yours?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"I'm not about to cheat based on your arbitrary prediction," Draco pointed out.

"Hasn't you stopped you from trying before."

"Fine. Seven months."

"You and Daphne seem to think he's got less time than the usual."

"You _have_ met him, haven't you?"

She smirked. "Fair enough."

***

Daphne didn't lift an eyebrow when Draco slipped five galleons into her palm. Instead she ducked her head, pretending to fix a loose ribbon in her robes as Nine's associate eulogized the man that was once Isabella Zabini's husband. "Pansy won," she murmured, the floppy brim of her hat casting a shadow over her eyes. "She had her money on two months."

"Did she, now." Draco caught a glimpse of her earlier in the funeral but lost her in the crowd of condolences and gossip-filled whispering. When he ran into Theodore he became entirely distracted with grudging mutterings about the amount he forfeited for such an off-base prediction. He scanned through the crowd, sizable for the occasion but about average considering whose husband it was, but saw no sign of Pansy.

"I thought I saw her heading in that direction," Daphne said, gesturing toward a copse of trees to their left. "But that was a while ago."

There was a lull in between eulogies, the audible sniffle of a distraught Isabella, and when it was Blaise's turn to speak Draco ducked out.

The sun was high and the air dry, the heat burning sweat beneath the thick formal robes he wore as he followed the path through the Zabini estates. He found Pansy sat on the deck that led to a small lake, bare legs dangling over the wooden planks that formed a short walkway from shore to lake proper. Her skirt bunched up around her thighs, her stockings and shoes lay behind her, her feet ankle-deep in cool water.

"No fags this time?" he said by way of greeting.

"I don't need to keep myself warm," was her reply. "Is the service over yet?"

"Doesn't look like it." She scooted a little to her side so he yanked off his shoes, pulled off his socks, rolled up his pant legs and sat down beside her. "Daphne says I owe you a few galleons."

"And Teddy owes me more." She laughed. "He says it's an outright mugging but I'm not the one who boldly bet on two years, now, was I?"

"I was convinced he knew something we didn't."

"Oh, he likely did," Pansy agreed. "But information changes as circumstances do, don't you think?"

"Was there something you knew, then?" Draco asked half-jokingly.

Pansy only smiled. "How goes your community service?"

He made a face. "Twenty hours left, but at the rate my days are going, it feels more like two hundred."

"You can't tell me you haven't mastered the art of soup serving by now."

"It puts a terrible strain on my shoulder, Pans. Why they don't leave this kind of work to the elves I will never understand."

She patted his arm lightly. "You were always so delicate," she teased.

"I was _not_ ," Draco denied, and there must have been something so thoroughly amusing with the look on his face because Pansy burst into peals of laughter then. "Pansy!"

"Oh, but you were, you were," she gasped between giggles. " _'That beast nearly killed me!'_ Mind, it was very endearing or else I wouldn't have been so besotted with you, but--"

He harumphed, sending her into another fit of laughter. "Feel free to cease any time."

"Sorry," she said, wiping the corners of her eyes with a lace handkerchief. "But Merlin, did I need that today."

He frowned. "Why?"

She shook her head. "Just the stress of the season, you know I've always liked summer least. Anyway, I have been meaning to tell you, I missed this, you know."

"Making a mockery of my sufferings?"

She bit her lip. "Mmhm," she said. "I am glad they didn't lock you up in Azkaban."

"You and me both," he said. "Glad you're around too, Pans." Daphne would never speak with him unless it was beneficial to her in some way. Blaise was much the same way, only he did everything with twice the contempt. And Theodore, while civil enough, was far too solemn and grave to associate with on a daily basis, rivaling only Dementors in his ability to suck the cheer out of anything.

"We ought to catch up soon," she said. "A lunch or tea sometime this month, maybe--"

"And be seen in public with me?" Draco gasped. "I hear that's social suicide these days."

"The world loves nothing better than a wizard redeemed, didn't you know?"

"Is that why you'd like to be seen with me?"

"Don't be silly," she said, nudging his shoulder with hers. "You have twenty hours more to go before redemption."

"Pansy--" he started to say, turning to face her, to demand that she stop dancing around the conversation with glib quips, but in the next second her lips were on his. It was a quick kiss, a chaste kiss, one he suspected she'd meant to plant on his cheeks, but he froze all the same and so did she. For a heartbeat, for two, the air was still. He caught her gaze and there he saw all the words she danced around saying, all the thoughts she refused to voice.

So he leaned forward and kissed her again.

***

There were many things Draco wanted to say, a dozen more he knew he should have done. But everyone was allowed one bad habit and Pansy's given up smoking. In its place, a heated kiss whilst cloaked beneath a Disillusionment Charm at Daphne's birthday party, a hard fuck against the stone walls of Nott Manor when Theodore and Astoria announced their engagement, a half hour alone between dignitary functions and MLE evaluations.

They discovered the foundations of a carefully crafted lie, they skirted around prying eyes. They mastered the art of an unobtrusive escape, they learned to decipher the hidden meanings behind the most innocent of words. They tread the line between languor and urgency, found how long to draw foreplay out before they ran out of time.

By the time the trees started burning orange and the leaves, withered and crisp, crunched beneath his footsteps, their bad habit had turned into a dangerous addiction.

"We've got to be more careful," Draco whispered, heart caught in his throat as he stepped out from behind the wardrobe. "I knew we shouldn't have--"

"He's gone; shut up," Pansy said, closing the distance between them and pulling him down for a kiss.

"Pansy--"

"Don't worry about it, please," she whispered. She kissed him again, tugging away the thin blanket wrapped around his waist, and he'd never been known for his fortitude so he let her persuade him.

***

Draco dared not seek her out at the next opportunity they had, least of all not when--

"We should have started a pool when we had the chance," Daphne murmured beside him. She sat stiff and prim, her eyes didn't even grace a glance his way. Her lips were puckered a dark red, soft black netting carefully draped over her eyes. She tucked black-gloved hands atop her lap, her stockinged legs crossed at the ankles.

"It was an accident, Daphne," Theodore said, seated on his other side. His voice was low and baritone, his expression similarly somber.

And it must have been, Draco wanted to say. It couldn't have been anything but, he wanted to point out, because Pansy had been with him.

"I suppose you're right," Daphne conceded. The corner of her lips quirked upward. "Once makes an accident, twice, a misfortune, but thrice and it's just a terrible habit."

Pansy took the dais then, hushing the gathered crowd. She was composed in her mourning robes, her eyes an appropriate shade of red and her voice trembling just the right way as she spoke about the importance of time, and what little she had with Alexander, and what kind of man he'd been. He'd have believed her had he not known better, and he wondered then, he worried then, what everyone else might have thought. But perhaps Pansy knew a thing or two more about persuasion than he did, because he noticed more than a few witches dabbing discreetly at the corners of their eyes.

After, with the ceremony over and the crowd dispersed into smaller groups for refreshments and condolences and gossip, he caught her eye briefly. She only nodded at him then, smiled for a moment, and he turned away.

They would find each other later.

***

But they didn't, not for a while. She was consumed with paperwork and visits from the MLE squad that the British Ministry had assigned to Alexander's case out of courtesy to the Russian embassy, and he had other things that needed rebuilding first: the Malfoy Manor, neglected after the trials; his father, stubbornly in denial; his mother, proud and unbowed but needing his comfort regardless.

The Malfoys were not invited to the Frost Ball that year, which was just as well. Theodore told him afterward that it was poorly attended, and whether it was because Isabella Zabini hosted it without a new husband or that she'd chosen the smallest of the estates nobody could tell. Draco held his tongue and stopped short of asking after Pansy, but Theodore, bless him, seemed to know more than he let on.

"And then of course Higgs and Daphne got into some row or other," he told Draco, even though they'd never once gossiped about Daphne and neither of them cared enough about Higgs to ever bring him into conversation. "It was a good thing Pansy had been there; they both disappeared after, though I don't know where. It was likely they decided to leave altogether and have a drink or two elsewhere, knowing them."

Draco only nodded. "I heard it didn't even snow."

"The warlock Isabella hired didn't seem to know what he was doing. I suspect he misread the runes," Theodore told him. "In any case, it seems as though it's eased Astoria's mind somewhat."

"Has it?"

"She's been fretting about the New Year's Eve Masquerade for months, especially coming on the heels of the Frost Ball. She thinks Isabella sets a standard she'll never reach."

Draco quirked an eyebrow at the faint smile ghosting Theodore's lips. "This warlock that Isabella hired," he said. "Has she known him long?"

"Not very," Theodore said. "The usual warlock she used went on a sudden holiday. Unplottable, it seems, no owls could reach him. Pity, that. The snowfall might have salvaged the ball."

"Imagine that."

***

Even with masks it was not hard to find her. He'd known her to favor striking colors and sharp contrasts, so he didn't second-guess himself as he approached the witch with the pale skin, deep green gown, and delicately sculpted silver mask.

"May I have this dance?" he asked, his own outfit a poorly crafted guise--only a quarter of a mask to cover part of his face and the distinct Malfoy blond hair spilling over its edges.

"If you must," she said after a dainty curtsy. She rested a hand upon his shoulder, allowed him to take the other, and as the music bowed out of one waltz and led into the other, his hand resting on her hip, she glanced at him and smiled.

"I don't really care much for dancing," he admitted, barely avoiding running into another couple as they navigated the ballroom. The Nott Manor had been a poor copy of its former glory the last time Draco visited, but tonight it had been restored to near perfection. The sky was a clear, star-spotted navy blue through the glass ceiling, and the crystal chandelier reflected a shimmering, glittering sort of light toward the guests. "Least of all not in a ballroom this crowded."

"Does your delicate constitution not allow you this much physical exertion?" she asked, laughing when he scowled in response. "They have no balcony here."

"They have a garden."

She led him through the final notes of the song, and when it ended they found themselves at the edge of the room, right by the double doors that led to the Nott gardens.

Draco himself had no idea what to expect--it was well-known Nott Sr had ignored that part of the manor after his wife passed away, but it seemed as though even the garden did not miss Astoria's attention. Where before there was only a forest of wild plants and untrimmed hedges, now fairy lights flickered and lit a winding path through winter blooms and evergreens. They walked until they reached a small gazebo of white wood and delicate swirls bordering its edges. The wind was chillier now, as they entered the dead of winter. She shivered slightly, leaning against him when he draped a fur cowl around her shoulders.

"Is this where you had in mind?" she asked, glancing at her lap when he slipped his hand in hers.

"You've mourned long enough, don't you think?"

"Quite possibly longer than I should have," she admitted. She glanced up at him, head cocked and eyes curious. "This feels like it should be harder than it is."

He took off his mask and gently pulled hers away as well.

"Is this it?" she asked. "Do we just... waltz out there as we are?"

"Just like that, you mean?"

"It almost seems too easy."

He laughed. "Actually, it seems like it's about goddamned time, Pans." He drew her close, pressed his lips to hers. "I think it's taken us long enough."  



End file.
